here at 61, still not bred,
got
to get you out of my head,
Gaily
at ease I stay in stead,
my
critics will never be fed.
Changes
come slow or fast,
I
stick with my cohorts up to the last,
some
have fled to death’s embrace,
Others
stay behind, put on a brave face.
Relatively
few of us still stand,
here
in the barren Midwest;
we still work and play the best we can,
decorate,
do some art, put on a fancy dress.
But
never allow ourselves to get depressed,
we
might miss one last party,
one
last lucky trick to enjoy,
one
more happy memory to create and express.
The
critics will never stop,
but
then again, neither will we.
On
and on the circus goes,
yet
slower and slower, awareness slows.
A
gentle, rewarding grace in age at last,
allows
an escape from hatred’s grasp.